The auctioneer was looking less self-satisfied than he had been a few minutes earlier. With a meek nod, he stretched to his full six feet and made his way to the longcase clock in the corner. I watched with puzzlement as he adjusted the hands to half past eleven. To my surprise, the ticking stopped abruptly and all was silent in the room. He then pressed his fingers against the clock face. As though a key had been turned, it opened, revealing only deep blackness behind.
“I usually keep antiques in here,” he explained casually and reached two hands inside.
His body shifted and I could not quite see what he lifted out. Turning back towards us, however, it caught the light from the fire and I stiffened in shock.
He was holding an angular, fully-fleshed skull. It looked much the same as the one which had been positioned on the auction block earlier, and I found myself staring into its sightless eyes again. Not surprisingly, Mr. Thorley kept the ghastly object at arm’s length as he passed across the room and to his desk.
Miss Henderson was lifting a bag open, and the auctioneer pushed it carefully inside.
“And, in return,” she said, lifting her necklace. The emerald glimmered in the firelight as she unfastened it from the lace and handed it to him. Mr. Thorley clasped it with hungry hands. “I must meet my employer,” she added breezily, turning to Holmes. “I do not wish you to follow me, Mr. Holmes. I’m sure you understand.”
“Naturally, yes.”
“So I will be locking you all in here.”
Mr. Thorley frowned at this, discomforted.
“I will be back in a couple of hours,” she assured him, like a nanny promising a treat.
The three of us remained in the office as the young lady returned to the hallway and pulled the door closed. It felt strange, being wilfully trapped like that. As the key turned, I looked resignedly for a chair. I needed a sit down after all that had happened.
“Do you suppose she will come back?” asked Mr. Thorley worriedly. “We have never had a raid here but, if we did, I’d be locked up before I’m even caught.”
A minute or two later, staring out of the window, I saw the lady outside on the street below, waving down a dog-cart. She certainly looked determined and, I thought, quite exhilarated as she bounded on-board and onto her next adventure. It was no doubt such excitement, and not the wealth alone, which kept her crossing continents and committing crimes.
* * *
It was a long wait and one which was mostly spent in silence. The sun began to sink and I watched it from the window. Afterwards, I became so bored that I wished for Holmes’s tuba, or even, perhaps, for a session of shooting rats.
Finally, two-and-a-quarter hours later, we heard the scratching of the lock.
I turned to the door with excited expectation. With a click, it swung wide, revealing Holmes in the hallway.
I leapt to my feet. “You’re back!” I said delightedly and clapped his hand in mine. “Did it go well?”
Holmes looked tired, but he proceeded gamely on. “Just as Thorley said, that secret door led directly outside. I was out there before she was, just as a dog-cart trotted down the street. The driver gave up his seat the moment I told him my name. With his hat pulled over my head, and a jacket draped about my shoulders, she didn’t notice a thing.”
“And you took her to her employer?”
“She directed me there herself,” said Holmes and folded into his seat with relief.
“Where is she now?” I asked.
Holmes tilted his head ruefully. “I don’t know, but I’m not interested. I know who her employer is, and that is all that matters to me now.”
“So who is he? Where did she lead you?”
Holmes slapped his thigh restlessly. “I shall tell you elsewhere, Watson. Mr. Thorley, good evening.”
The auctioneer could only bob his head bemusedly.
At our rooms in Baker Street, the hearth blazing a beautiful orange, Holmes told me all of what he had seen and heard since he had left Limehouse late that afternoon. I sat back in my favourite armchair and listened intently to a story which I had not expected, but one I was most fascinated to hear.
Chewing on a briar, Holmes told me all: “Miss Henderson requested that I take her to Waterloo. I thought this was curious, as there was more than one train station nearer than that. I did as I was told, however, and upon our arrival she disembarked. I waited a few moments before following on foot. I suspected she would head out of London. As it was, she didn’t take a train at all.”
“Why is that?” I asked earnestly.
“That is what I asked myself, Watson, and I received my answer well enough. Staying a good few yards behind, I followed her inside the station house. There was a secretary there, almost guarding the door through which Miss Henderson had just disappeared. I was able to send the fellow away and pressed my ear against the door of the station master’s office. There, she met her employer.”
“Well?” I pressed impatiently. “Who was it?”
“He is, Watson, none other than James Moriarty.”
I stared at him, astounded. “But that cannot be!” I protested. “You saw him die. We have even seen his disembodied skull!”
Holmes waved a hand to calm me. “The man I saw today was not the Professor, Watson, but his brother. A colonel, no less. I met him, briefly, but as he was engaged in his work, I asked him if he would consider agreeing to visit here this evening and discuss the matter with us. He kindly assented, and we may expect him to arrive at any moment.”
Throughout my friend’s monologue, I had remained rapt and rigid. The notion that we should meet the brother of Moriarty - the man to whom the whole of the country, nay even the Continent, had been a devil’s playground - was an honour of the most dubious variety. It shames me now to consider such sentiments, particularly as it was the sort of idolatry which had so intoxicated the Professor’s many followers. Perhaps I was simply intrigued. I had heard so much of Moriarty. To hear more of him, and from someone so close, was a tantalising opportunity, if not entirely an outright privilege.
Holmes and I waited in the silent gloom for almost an hour before the doorbell signalled the arrival of our visitor. I heard Mrs. Hudson softly padding through the hallway and, a few moments later, the creaking of the stairs. Holmes had once told me how he had heard the Professor himself ascend those same steps, while he played nonchalantly on his violin. Something similar was happening now. Pulling the door wide, I found a short, thin man waiting without.
He leant forward slightly in a stoop, his head was bare and domed and his face was almost skeletally thin. I was surprised, and a little disconcerted, of the resemblance to his brother’s skull.
“Good evening, Colonel,” said Holmes and gestured hospitably towards the sofa. “You have heard of Dr. Watson?”
“Yes,” he said, nodding to me politely, and took his seat.
“It is good of you to join us, Colonel. We certainly appreciate your coming. Perhaps, then, in your own time, you may tell us everything you wish.”
Colonel Moriarty took a breath and, after a pause which felt like forever, he began his story. “My father was a mathematician,” he said. “He was also named James, and was a criminal of the white-collar variety. A tall, slim man with deep-set eyes and a hooked nose, he was a foreboding presence - a man who believed in discipline and effort, and one who did not tolerate weakness of any kind. He tolerated, in fact, rather little, and we were greatly in fear of him. He never drank, however, like so many other males. He was always lucid and logical, which was one of the ways he was so fearsome. Any time we misbehaved and began a story to excuse it, he could fault it laterally with astonishing ease.
“Our mother, Ennis, relied on him - probably more than the other mothers. She was not what you might describe as a particularly strong woman. She looked to him for guidance on
everything, even the most trivial of matters. His word was law and his decisions final. I think now, as I look again across the years, how much power he wielded, both in the house and the wider community. People respected him. Perhaps, in retrospect, they were even scared. I do not remember a great deal about him as, one morning, he died in a boating accident. As you can readily imagine, Mr. Holmes, our mother was heartbroken. Quite profoundly, in fact. That was when things started to become strange.”
“How so?” I prompted, but Holmes was more patient than I and waited silently for our visitor to continue.
“Our mother was lost without him. I appreciate that it often the way with spouses who suddenly find themselves alone, but this was different. More... desperate. She cried out to him in the night, when she thought we were asleep and could not hear her. But we did, Mr. Holmes, the three of us heard her well and became quite disturbed.”
“Did you know your father had died?” asked Holmes, “or did she endeavour to keep the news from you?”
“Oh, no, we knew immediately. The whole village did. At first, she spoke of Father in wistful terms. She would say how much she wished he were with us. She then began saying we must act as he did. That may sound innocent enough to your ears, Mr. Holmes, as it did to ours at first, but she meant it most seriously. After a short while, she became more earnest about it, more intense, and demanded we behave just as he had done. We were not to behave like children, she said, but like grown men who were mature of thought and temperament. And so we did not play, like the other children, and we did not laugh. Before it was truly time for it, our mother began to teach us mathematics. We proved to be precocious students, sharing our father’s abilities, and we learned it well. There is no denying, however, there were particular standards we were expected to meet. She urged us, most aggressively, to be just as able as he.
“Even when we became the best of our age, our mother did not desist. She taught us, too, of thievery and blackmail. I was, by this point, almost eight years old, and our names had already been changed in tribute to our father. It is curious now how we could ever correctly refer to the other. Somehow, it seldom seemed to be a problem, and we were rarely apart to make it one. Something she could not replicate, however, was our father’s personality. I was reticent and less eager to flourish than my brothers. It would have been fruitless, in any case, as my elder brother was truly the cleverest in all that we did. He was determined and hungry for praise. He was seven years older than I, and had known Father rather better, and had therefore been accustomed to his frequent foul moods. Perhaps this was why he had some himself.
“This brother, whom you knew, was twenty-one when he penned a treatise on the Binomial Theorem. It was a most impressive work, and one in which there is no equal. Indeed, it is said that there is no man in the country able to competently critique it. For this, he was awarded a Mathematical Chair at Durham University. I slowly began to lose touch with him. At this point, I do not think he wanted to be reminded of his father and someone such as I, with the same name and perhaps even resemblance, would have done just that. By the time he had written The Dynamics of an Asteroid, he was not a relative, but a relative stranger. I can only speculate on his subsequent thinking. It is my belief, however, that his ambition to prove to himself, as well as to others, that he was no mere imitator became an obsession. He was driven not only to excel himself but exceed our father.
Holmes nodded understandingly. “He became a far more formidable criminal than he or, indeed, any other before him.”
“Quite,” agreed the Colonel.
“Ironically,” I added, “in his fall at Reichenbach, he died in much the same way.”
The man’s eyes clouded wistfully, as though he had not hitherto considered this tragic similarity.
“And what of yourself, Colonel?” asked Holmes.
He looked up at Holmes and half-shrugged. “Well, as my brother was much older, I was able to perceive the effects our childhood had wrought upon him. I recognized that our mother was quite insensible and turned my back on mathematics. Instead, I enrolled in the military and, as you know, I am currently enjoying an early retirement as a station master.”
“Then why,” I said, “do you wish to purchase your brother’s skull as a semi-religious relic?”
The manner in which I had framed this sentence seemed to take the old man by surprise. “I wish no such thing.”
“If you would permit me to answer for you, Colonel,” said Holmes, interrupting with a raised hand, “I think I know the reason.”
I looked at my friend expectantly.
“The Colonel, Watson, is saddened by the trajectory his brother’s life had taken. He has seen the mania which has infused the Professor’s followers and sees parallels in his own childhood. He knows what such adoration can inspire. He does not want the same to happen to somebody else.”
I turned to Moriarty for confirmation of this curious analysis. With what I believed was relief, he bowed his head in approval.
“I heard that my brother’s body was, in some semblance, being returned to London and initially believed it would be buried here. To my distaste, I learned that only the skull remained and that it would be sold to one of his many devotees. I had no way of knowing where it was, so I decided to investigate. I quickly came upon Miss Henderson who, rarely for a criminal in London, did not wish to acquire the head herself.”
“Miss Henderson has always preferred to carve her own path,” said Holmes with open admiration.
“I enlisted the lady’s help and, with her considerable knowledge of the underworld, she was able to establish just how the head was to be sold. To avoid it falling into the hands of zealots, I had no choice but to purchase it myself and did so in a private sale which she arranged. All else, such as designing a fake as a decoy, was her own idea.”
“What shall you do with it?” I asked. It was indiscreet of me, but I was too intrigued not to ask.
The Colonel did not seem surprised at the question and answered. “I have already thrown it in the Thames,” he said heavily. “Yet another watery grave.”
A moment of silent calm passed between us, almost in respect for our fallen enemy. Then, slowly, the old man rose from his chair and Holmes did the same.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Colonel,” said my friend and gripped the man’s hand.
“As it is for me, Mr. Holmes. It is reassuring to know there are men just as clever as my late brother, but without his... idiosyncrasies.” He smiled weakly, and Holmes returned it.
After our visitor had left, I moved to the hearth and began poking the fire.
“Wait, Watson!” came Holmes’s voice behind me.
I felt an unpleasant stir and, turning, found my fears had been realised.
Holmes was positioned in an armchair with the tuba perched portentously on his lap.
“I thought that was a ruse,” I said quite desperately. “You never really had an interest in this monstrosity.”
“That is correct, Watson,” said Holmes happily. “But, in playing it this morning for the purpose of my prank, I decided the music was rather heartening.”
Before I could stop him, he pressed his lips to the mouthpiece and fiddled his fingers along the buttons.
My protests were inaudible above the noise, but I was not about to give up. I looked about for something to cram into the bell. As I did so, my pained gaze settled on something I had forgotten entirely.
In the corner, stood a rat.
The Influence Machine
by Mark Mower
The early part of 1895 had already proved to be one of the busiest periods that Holmes and I had experienced in taking on the many cases and conundrums that presented themselves from week to week. And it was in June of that year that we were thrown unexpectedly into a short but ultimately unique affair which now deserves public atte
ntion.
I had returned to Baker Street that particular afternoon to present Holmes with a gift. Knowing his fondness for rare manuscripts on obscure topics, I had managed to purchase, at no great expense, a first-edition of Francis Hauksbee’s 1715 lecture notes on A Course of Mechanical, Optical, Hydrostatical, and Pneumatical Experiments. My colleague was immediately enraptured by the tome, eagerly flicking through its delicate pages and taking in the exquisitely printed diagrams which accompanied the text. It was a good twenty minutes before he re-engaged me in conversation.
“A most curious feature, Watson!”
I looked up from The Times and cast him a glance. I could see by his intense concentration that something inside the leather covering of the front cover had caught his attention. Slipping his bony fingers under an exposed section of the binding, he had withdrawn a small folded letter which he then began to scrutinise.
“This is most unexpected. You might remember that Hauksbee was the son of a draper. He ran a business off Fleet Street specialising in air-pumps, hydrostatic devices, and reflecting telescopes. But as a scientist he is known principally for inventing an early electrostatic generator, which he demonstrated at meetings of the Royal Society.”
I had to confess, that beyond the name, I had little knowledge of Hauksbee or his work. “So what did this electrostatic generator do?” I asked, placing the newspaper down on the arm of my chair.
“The contraption consisted of a sealed glass globe which could be rotated rapidly by a hand-cranked wheel. While spinning the wheel with one hand, Hauksbee would use his other hand to place a light cotton cloth on the top of the rotating glass. The electrical charge he created would produce a light which stunned everyone in his packed lecture theatres.”
“Most fascinating. And was the note that you now hold in your hand written by Mr. Hauksbee?”
He smirked mischievously. “No. That is the curious feature!” He was in a state of some excitement and rose from his chair to retrieve a magnifying glass from the mantelpiece. He then sat at the table before the window and began to examine the document through the lens. “A short, personal note, written on cheap paper. The high concentration of cotton fibres suggests it was manufactured close to one of the Northern mill towns. The watermark is crude but reveals the words ‘Lewden Mill’. My supposition is thus confirmed - the paper mill is in Worsbrough, Yorkshire.”
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part IX Page 45